Forceborn
by Alexian Cale
Summary: A re-imagining of James Luceno's "Darth Plagueis" novel. In his quest to master death, Darth Plagueis defies a thousand years of tradition, recruits a scheming apprentice, and threatens the very balance of the Force.
1. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Prologue:**

**Down the Rabbit Hole**

**42BBY**

It came hurtling out from the darkness between the stars, moving with such speed that, to the naked eye, it would have simply appeared out of thin air. (Figuratively, of course; there is no air to be found—thin or otherwise—in the oppressive vacuum of space.)

Bursting forth from the realm of hyperspace, the object transitioned almost immediately to the observable but not inconsiderable sub-light speed, hurtling inexorably towards what any spacer with a modicum of sense would consider to be certain death: in the ever-closing distance, a cluster of massive circles of profound nothingness. Tears in the silky darkness of space-time, perhaps the persisting claw-marks of some eldritch god.

This grouping of black holes lacked an official designation by the Galactic Republic, but cartographers and travelers far and wide simply referred to it as "the Maw"—which was only slightly less ominous than its second most popular name: Deadspace. (Though much less unsettling than its third most popular name, the Wells of Agony.)

It was testament to the Maw's fearsome reputation that the area was, for all intents and purposes, deserted; given the substantial surplus of cocky smugglers, arrogant space-jockeys, and all manner of impetuous glory hounds, it seemed inconceivable that such a nightmarish sector would want for challengers. Still, the Maw was the standard that separated the merely daring from the suicidal, and thus most danger-seekers were content to consign themselves to more pedestrian enterprises, like the Kessel Run. And so it was that no one was in the vicinity to witness the object's brazen trajectory, glimpsing its pristine chromium reflect the far-flung starlight or admire the organic flawlessness of its almost missile shape.

This fact elicited a sound that was as much annoyed exhalation as it was wistful sigh from the lips of Darth Sidious, whose sense of theatricality, too often repressed, had nurtured a restless appreciation for grand entrances.

The object was not a missile, but in fact an H-type Nubian yacht, a luxury diplomatic shuttle manufactured for restricted use by the Royal House of Naboo, capital of the Chommell sector. Though sleek and small for an ambassadorial vessel, it was nonetheless an exercise of half-hearted minimalism; dimensions notwithstanding, the chromium plating (including its three unnecessary external fins) and sophisticated detection, navigation, and propulsion systems made the ship class one of the very most expensive for its size in the whole of Republic Space.

Sidious was one of three passengers aboard the yacht, which had the distinction of being a flying gift; a present to the sector's recently-elected Senator, Palpatine of Naboo, from the Nubian king. Nevertheless, the ship had been quietly appropriated by the Sith Order for its maiden voyage. It lacked an official designation, which would traditionally have been provided by the reigning monarch; however, so popular was Palpatine that the king forfeited this right to the senator, but not before extolling him to give the matter "a preponderance of ponderance." Palpatine had accepted these terms graciously, but Sidious—uniquely and completely informed of the yacht's rather complex origins—had taken to calling it the _Tenebrous_.

Lamentation of their discreet arrival fell beneath the weight of cold amusement at the name and its implications; a rather cruel joke that was as private as the coming events of the evening. Releasing the yacht's controls, Sidious pivoted his chair to regard the first of his two fellows.

The occupant of the co-pilot seat was, like Sidious himself, a human male. But it could not be denied that Sate Pestage cut an altogether more imposing figure: ironic, given his utter lack of talent for Force manipulation. Taller than Sidious by several centimeters, Sate was also heavier by better than half a dozen kilos, with the weight distributed across a broad chest, swollen arms accentuated by a dark shirt with short sleeves, and powerful legs camouflaged by loose-fitting brown trousers. Younger, too: a hard, sculpted face that was less blemished than what one might expect of his occupation and black hair the color of starship oil that, though receding at the temples, was only sparsely flecked with steel grey.

Only five standard years separated the two men in age and it occurred to Sidious that, once, he would have felt a twinge of envy at his operative's persistent vitality. Alas, the luxuries of youth were beyond what Sidious could now afford, so taxed was he by his multitude of titanic burdens. He knew that acquaintances and colleagues were frequently surprised to learn his true age; but he also knew that that surprise would be much deeper—much more horrifying—if they understood just how much effort it required to appear as he did. The cost of maintaining some semblance of viridity.

Of humanity.

"What do you think?"

When Sate answered, he did so without removing his eyes from the forward viewport and his tone was absent, as though enthralled by the rapidly approaching event horizons.

"It certainly matches your description: dark, empty, scary as hell..."

"You mean to say you're frightened?" Sidious asked lightly. Sate shifted to look at him, scowling.

"I'd prefer 'cautious'."

Sidious chuckled. "I'm sure you would."

Sate snorted derisively, but Sidious's keen eyes detected the pattern that his companion's calloused fingers were gently tracing along the smooth handle of the Swiftkick blaster rifle strapped to his thigh—one of his tells. When afraid, some men tapped their feet, others bit their fingernails, and Sate Pestage reached for the nearest gun.

"You've been in far worse situations, I assure you," Sidious offered.

"True," Sate replied. "For all of which I have you to thank."

"If you wish to hold me accountable for imbuing your life with excitement and thrills, so be it."

"Sure," conceded Sate, dryly. "As long as you accept responsibility for the various wounds I've suffered on your behalf over the years."

Sidious waved a dismissive hand. "Occupational hazards; you knew what you were getting into."

Sate's eyes returned to the viewport and his words were distant: "I really _didn't_."

Sidious opened his mouth to issue a sharp retort when pressure blossomed like an unpleasant flower from the base of his skull. He turned back to the controls. "Check on our guest, will you? This will require my full attention."

Aware that he was being dismissed, Sate sighed and released himself from the chair's safety harness. "As you wish. I'd rather not see it when we fly into one of those things."

As the _clang_ of his companion's footsteps receded, Sidious closed his eyes and inhaled deeply; he drew in breath and the Force at once in an inextricable life-weave. Briefly swollen with energy, his awareness was now magnified to encompass the _Tenebrous_ in its entirety; in a very real sense, he and the vessel were one. His five senses were enhanced to extraordinary levels: he could hear the manifold _thums_ and _whirls _of the yacht's constituent parts; could taste the acrid tang of chromium and durasteel; could feel the coarse fabric of the third passenger's tunic as he was hauled to his feet; could smell a sudden burst of sharp repugnance; could see Sate's expression of shock morph into one of livid rage. And Sidious absorbed this reality-bending influx of stimuli with scholarly poise; this was apotheosis, he knew. He transitioned from man to god with each breath.

He opened his eyes—which were, he noticed in the viewport's reflection, wreathed in a demonic yellow that had long ago ceased to unsettle him—and exhaled. The borrowed energy burst out of his body in an omni-directional spray; the Force washed out over the floor, ceiling, and hull; then outward still, as if in some sort of metaphysical osmosis, through the dense plating and out into space. His slender fingers gripped the controls and began to move in negligible, at times almost-imperceptible twitches; nudging the _Tenebrous_ left and right and down and up as it passed through the contorted corridor between the black holes. This would have been impossible for the galaxy's mundane denizens—some hundred quadrillion sentients, if the most recent Republic census was any reasonable estimation—as even the most skilled pilot would be destabilized and crushed beneath the ferocious waves in an ocean of gravitational disturbance. But to Sidious, in this state, those waves were nothing more than the ripples of a rain puddle.

A miniature lightning storm erupted in the cockpit as the swirling rings of ultra-hot, super-dense gas that constituted the black holes' accretion disks wreaked havoc on the sensors. A chorus of alarms and klaxons burst into discordant melody.

The light burned with blinding intensity; it was as if he were staring into a sun. Suddenly, he felt a cold spot on the center of his forehead—as if someone had placed there an aurodium coin retrieved from the arctic wastes of Mygeeto. The sensation should have felt foreign to him; inappropriate, out of place. But it was neither. Reflexively, he lifted a hand from the controls.

The moment his fingertips made contact, Sidious's vision exploded in a kaleidoscope of images: a corpse-white face with what might have been streaks of blood cascading from bright red eyes; a fair-haired woman of middle age whose bearing and beauty conjured thoughts of an elaborate ice sculpture; a dark gray, almost purplish countenance smoothed in an impassive expression; a richly-dressed man of medium build whose features were contorted with anguish; a squirming, pudgy infant with crimson flesh and a crown of jagged horns; and then others too, indistinguishable in a cyclone of color.

This miasma of shapes, distant and yet so very familiar, coalesced into a single form: pale flesh pockmarked with blemishes, stretched over the comically-elongated, almost rectangular skull of a Muun. Shock lanced a well of dread in his heart and fear began to pump through his body as surely as blood. Entranced, Sidious did not—_could_ not—divert his gaze.

The Muun's eyelids sprang open to reveal orbs flaring a blistering white and the thin lips curled into a familiar grin of contempt.

"_Mine_."

Horrified, Sidious's hands snapped up, fingers clawed, and in desperation tugged on the Force like a child seeking refuge from a nightmare in his blanket.

Reality broke; the Muun's head vanished; the images disintegrated into streams of light like stars in hyperspace; and Darth Sidious tumbled into the Force like a sailor swept into the depths of an angry sea.


	2. Building Bridges

**Chapter 1:**

**Building Bridges**

**65 BBY**

Far removed from the extravagance of Coruscant and the Core worlds, the planet Abridon lazed in serenity, accompanied only by a trio of unsettled moons and occupied by a relatively sparse population of some one hundred million creatures. To approaching spacers, Abridon appeared to be a water world not unlike the much more commercially- and politically-significant planets Mon Cala and Muunilinst—a cool blue orb hanging in space, swathed in layers of enduring white curls. Only after one had penetrated the cloud cover would one see the half-dozen continents that altogether constituted forty percent of the planet's surface. Pleasant, if not entirely picturesque, what Abridon lacked in a multifaceted geography it made up for in charming consistency. The sum of its physical features included wave after wave of hills, the shallow valleys between them, and a lattice of thin rivers that seeped into the waters of contended oceans. To by-passers, it was one of a million ordinary worlds; to its own denizens, it was the Alderaan of the Outer Rim.

Abridon's temperance coupled with its lack of galactic recognition made it an ideal home for those who appreciated beauty yet nevertheless sought the benefits of a quiet life of luxury. As such, most of its inhabitants were inordinately wealthy—bankers, entrepreneurs, retired politicians, and even former giants of the Holofilm industry. It was the playground of the power broker; those who, for all their vast net worth and influence, had managed the impossible: to elude the all-seeing-eye of Coruscant.

The second largest continent was neatly bisected by Abridon's equator. Far removed from the other mansions that littered the surrounding landscape, the estate of Rugess Nome sprawled in the bowl between two uncommonly tall hills. Though palatial in size, it was not especially attractive among the great houses, lacking the ornate trappings and characteristics typically associated with regality. There were no columns, domes, or balconies in sight Rather, its resemblance was between a modern fortress or a neatly arranged pile of shoeboxes—an observation which, to many spectators, served only to emphasize Nome's eccentricities.

To the public, the reclusive Nome was an extraordinarily gifted starship designer whose creations might be found in great number on any civilized planet in the galaxy. He'd had professional ties to such conglomerates as the Techno Union and its web of subsidiaries—Baktoid, Haor Chall, TaggeCo.—among others; through substantial monetary cost, he had cultivated considerable influence in the InterGalactic Banking Clan. Nome's labyrinthine circuit of finances, from investment to returns, would have flummoxed an army of accountants. It also made him one of the wealthiest individuals in the galaxy. But rather than use his vast fortune to assume center stage in the theater of starship manufacturing, Nome seemingly preferred a backstage role, eschewing the galactic spotlight, opting instead to apply the might of his credits in a more judicious manner.

But then that was less an issue of peculiarity than it was one of practicality: for Rugess Nome was merely the alter-ego of Darth Tenebrous, Master of the Sith, who had come to understand that the shadows afforded more opportunity to thrive than the oppressive light.

Tenebrous's apprentice, Darth Plagueis, who had arrived on Abridon only an hour before, could not contradict the wisdom of the arrangement. Concealment had become a necessity for their order, which was believed to have been utterly destroyed over nine centuries ago. It was no exaggeration to say that the survival of the Sith, let alone their freedom, was contingent on the greater galaxy's ignorance. And so, from Darth Bane on, each Sith Lord was forced to live a dichotomous life, assuming dual roles. Wisdom notwithstanding, Plagueis could not help but envy the enemy he was charged to loathe. There was an allure, he supposed, to the simplicity of the Jedi Knight who had no need for exhausting deception. But the circumstances were presently immutable and no amount of envy or wishing would change it. And so, to an even greater extent than his Master, Plagueis had dedicated the last twenty years to a most personal alchemy: creating some measure of truth from his life of lies.

He sat in the regal but uncomfortable chair before a great wooden desk, gazing distantly out the window of his Master's spacious study, disinterested in Tenebrous's increasingly heated exchange with the hand-sized hologram of what was probably an outrageously rich financier or corporate suit—yet whose liberal use of foul language suggested a profession as a common spacer. The room was walled with bookshelves two-and-a-half times Plagueis's own prodigious height, filled with ancient books, which were anachronistic in the age of holograms and datapads.

Plagueis's efforts to drown the conversation out were futile but his patience was rewarded when a fresh flow of curses was guillotined by sudden silence. He heard his Master's brisk footfalls and turned in his chair as Tenebrous entered the room in an agitated pace.

"Not a pleasant chat?" Plagueis asked lightly.

Tenebrous scowled. "As if you have to ask."

A member of the Bith species, Tenebrous was certainly not representative of what the galaxy had come to think of the Sith—if any of them thought of the Sith at all. Whereas the more infamous members of the order had been known for their mostly intimidating, sometimes terrifying physicality—often rotted, scarred, and tattooed—Tenebrous's appearance conjured fewer impressions of abject fear than it did bewilderment.

He was tall for his kind, yet shorter than the average Neimoidian or a Muun like Plagueis by better than a dozen centimeters. He was trim and fit, unlike Plagueis, whose height made him appear morbidly thin. Like Plagueis, Tenebrous's skull was hairless and deformed by human standards; unlike Plagueis, his cranium was disproportionately swollen, particularly above the fist-sized black globes that were his eyes. He lacked a nose and breathed through a series of fleshy folds that framed a puckered mouth that was further contorted by annoyance.

Plagueis intuited the source. "That was Kerred Santhe, I presume?"

"None other," his Master grumbled. "Obnoxious, presumptuous twit."

"What did he want?"

"Nothing new," Tenebrous huffed, waving a dismissive hand. "He's desired exclusive rights to my designs for years. But recently, he's become more aggressive, trying to hurl his newfound weight around."

"Perhaps you should consider it, Master," Plagueis suggested. "A monogamous relationship with Santhe would mean that we'd have only _one _company to worry about."

His Master's reaction was one Plagueis had thought reserved for more extraordinary moments—like spontaneously growing a second head. "And risk putting the totality of our finances at the mercy of that imbecile? I care not to have my eggs in one basket, thank you."

"It was just a suggestion, Master," Plagueis said mildly, inclining his head.

"Santhe," Tenebrous hissed. "What he has in credits he lacks in brains. It's a wonder he's survived this long."

"His longevity owes much to your patronage," Plagueis reminded him. "You did, after all, arrange for the merger with Sienar."

"Indeed," the elder Sith Lord mused. "It's a shame _he's_ forgotten that. It was difficult to resist the urge to throttle the ungrateful hack."

Plagueis set down his stylus. "Why didn't you?"

Tenebrous shot him a look. "Because I'm not a mindless brute. Do I look like Darth Malak?"

Plagueis squinted in consideration. "Well, now that you mention it, you do have a similar jawline."

"If only your skills were as sharp as your wit, you'd be tormented by your own apprentice by now."

Plagueis bowed his head deferentially and turned back to the window.

Tenebrous clasped his hands behind his back and moved to stand beside Plagueis. "Santhe is a fool, but one of my own making. Killing him, however cathartic, would transfer the control of the company to his son, who shares his father's idiocy as well as his name. Worse, he lacks any experience. Killing both isn't an option—"

"You fear attracting the attention?"

"That and more," Tenebrous nodded. "Removing both Santhes would push control of the consortium back to Narro Sienar and that is quite possibly the _last_ thing we want."

"Why is that, Master?" asked Plagueis as he watched a flock of birds pass by the window in a majestic V-array.

Tenebrous blew out a forceful exhale. "Sienar is cleverer than Santhe, but has all the charm of a Trandoshan prostitute. He's also, I'm told, a xenophobe of the highest order. He'd very likely try to renege on our business relationship. It is for this very reason that I urged Santhe to marginalize him. But now..."

A cloak of silence fell over the room until Tenebrous sighed and turned to face him. "But these matters require some deliberation and you didn't come all this way to hear my frustrations. What brings you out this way, Lord Plagueis?"

Plagueis adopted a more professional posture. "My lord, I was wondering if we could revisit an old topic."

"There are many of those between us, my apprentice," noted Tenebrous, before adding wearily, "Yet yet I suspect I know the one to which you refer."

"Your insight is impeccable, Master," said Plagueis, with a nod. He squared his shoulders. "With your permission and, more importantly, your cooperation, I would like to explore the prospects of extending our reign indefinitely."

Tenebrous's arms dropped to his sides and his shoulders stooped in disappointment. Shaking his head, the Bith turned away. "I regret asking."

"But you _did_ ask," Plagueis countered. "Now hear me out."

"Very well." Tenebrous sighed, gesturing for Plagueis to stand up. When he did, the Bith lowered himself into the vacant chair and fixed his apprentice with an ambiguous gaze. "Continue."

"I have turned a corner in my own efforts," said Plagueis, "and I believe I may have the answer that has eluded us for so long."

"Your own efforts?" his Master repeated, tone frosty. "By that you mean efforts you were discouraged from making?"

Plagueis glanced at the floor before answering. "Yes, my lord."

Tenebrous exhaled deeply, the flaps beneath his eyes undulating with force. "You risk a great deal with this presentation, apprentice. For your sake, I hope it's worth it."

Plagueis flinched, but rather than dissuade him, the threat galvanized him. "The answer is midi-chlorians."

The elder Sith Lord tipped his head in wonder. "What about them?"

"It's very simple," Plagueis said. "As you told me, all those years ago, Jedi think midi-chlorians are messengers delivering the whims of the Force. You explained to me that the reality is a subtle difference: midi-chlorians are simply relays that enable living beings to draw—"

"Given that, as you say, _I_ explained this to _you_," Tenebrous interrupted, an edge to his voice. "Why are you wasting time regurgitating it?"

"One conclusion both Jedi and Sith draw," said Plagueis, seamlessly skipping further into his mentally-prepared lecture, "is that biological life can_not_ exist without midi-chlorian presence. If so, then it is possible that midi-chlorians can also determine a being's longevity."

"Possible," his Master repeated. "But there are a number of alternate factors in a creature's life expectancy: diet, level of activity, pre-existing medical conditions, environmental exposure—"

"All true," conceded Plagueis, "but adepts have been using the Force to counter the body's limitations for years."

"Temporarily."

Plagueis nodded. "So then it is only a matter of extending the effects into permanence."

Tenebrous's response was sarcastic. "Yes, of course: a trifle matter for someone of your gifts. And I suppose you've forgotten that attempts _have_ been made to do just that?"

"Yes, but foolishly," Plagueis insisted. He shook his head. "I am not suggesting that we leech the Force from planets as some have done before. Inevitably, one's persona is gradually sublimated by the excess energy. That is an unacceptable consequence: eternal life without my mind isn't life at all."

He paused, his eyes shifting in consideration. After a moment, he returned his gaze to his Master. "Let us assume that midi-chlorians are bridges between the Force and the body. What the ancients did, by consuming Force energy so copiously, is attempt to convey a planet's worth of cargo across a handful of rickety bridges."

"A rather blatant attempt to appeal to a Bith's appreciation for engineering," his Master said, dryly.

"It's working, isn't it?" Plagueis asked, allowing a sly smile to curl his lips.

"Continue," Tenebrous granted, after a sour pause.

"The result is that the overstressed bridges eventually collapse under their own weight," Plagueis concluded.

"Would you, speaking of bridges, be kind enough to build one to your point?"

"The solution is obvious," Plagueis said. "You can either reinforce the bridge..."

"Or build more of them," finished Tenebrous, lifting a finger to his chin.

"Precisely," Plagueis agreed, his smile now genuine.

"Intriguing," the Bith drawled. "You mean to increase the number of midi-chlorians in our cells."

"Yes, my lord," Plagueis said, bringing his fingertips together and tipping his hands in the elder Sith Lord's direction. "The only question is: will you help me?"

"That depends," Tenebrous replied, leaning back in his chair. "Do you have any ideas on how exactly we might do that?"

The question was entirely fair, Plagueis understood; he pondered his answer for a dozen heartbeats before answering. "I believe the key may lie in prior research, Master."

"Whose?" Tenebrous glowered.

"Darth Ramage." Plagueis again fell silent as his Master's head inclined calculatingly. "My lord, what do you know of bota?"


	3. No Pressure

**Chapter 2**

**No Pressure**

Tenebrous did not answer immediately; did not react at all. Instead, it was though the question was some sort of arcane incantation that turned flesh to stone. Then, after the silence stretched to a dozen seconds, his puckered lips in the Bith approximation of a smirk.

"Well, well," he murmured, "you _have_ done your homework, haven't you?"

Plagueis lifted his chin in satisfaction. "So you have heard of it?"

"Of course I have," his Master grunted. He pulled himself out of the chair in a manner not unlike a weary drunkard.

Plagueis's gaze fixated on Tenebrous, tracking him as he turned his back on his apprentice to stare out the window. Then, his tone mild, he asked, "Why haven't I?"

His Master shrugged. "Because I saw no benefit in you knowing of it."

"No benefit for which of us?" Plagueis dared. Tenebrous turned from the window and steepled his fingers.

"Bota is a rare plant," he offered.

"How rare?"

"Very," Tenebrous said flatly. "To say that it could be found on a handful of worlds is likely a gross overestimation."

Plagueis nodded, having anticipated as much. If not, would not the Republic have already harvested the plant on behalf of the Jedi?

"I scoured the archives for references," Plagueis admitted, diverting his gaze. "But they are as elusive as the plant itself." He paused. "Based on the context, I've been able to discern that they affect an adept's Force powers."

He looked back to his Master, more hopeful than expectant of elaboration. Fortunately, his faith in Tenebrous's encyclopedic knowledge of the Force was not misplaced. The Bith began to massage his hand with the fingers of the other.

"It is my understanding," the elder Sith began, "that when bota is consumed by a Force user, it magnifies that person's connection to the Force."

Plagueis nodded again, digesting this information without much difficulty. The Sith archives were replete with accounts—fables and lies, Tenebrous would often seethe—of ancient Sith Lords with access to various artifacts and totems that enhanced their powers to radical levels. If the stories were true, these items bequeathed extraordinary might to the ancients: to the degree that they could fabricate breathtaking illusions on a planetary scale or generate supernovae and other interstellar catastrophes at will. While Plagueis understood such legends were tremendously distorted by the rampant egomania that plagued their order before Darth Bane's vision brought to it a much-needed sense of humility, the notion of adepts being empowered by artificial means was nothing new.

"Is it known to what degree, Master?" Plagueis asked, his tone thoughtful.

Tenebrous seemed to choose his adjective carefully. "Exponentially."

Plagueis inhaled deeply, nostrils quivering. But he compelled his three hearts to resume a more controlled rate, refusing to hinge his hopes on unsubstantiated rumors. "This information cannot be found in the archives. If I may be so bold to ask, how is it that you know this?"

"You forget," Tenebrous began, "Ramage was my Master's Master."

"Lord Vectivus shared Ramage's secrets with you?" Plagueis asked, his words resonant with excitement, which quickly dissipated when Tenebrous shook his engorged head.

"No," he said at last. "Vectivus shared with me only a little more than what can be found in the archives. As it turns out, Lord Ramage was not a proponent of teacher-pupil transparency."

Crestfallen, Plagueis raised a large, spidery hand to his forehead. He shifted his jaw in consideration.

"Perhaps it was Vectivus and not Ramage who concealed the information, Master?"

Tenebrous chuckled. "I rather doubt it. Otherwise, the outcome of our last meeting would have been... significantly altered."

"It doesn't make any sense," Plagueis half-whispered. "The archives portray Darth Ramage as a scientist—where are his notes? His journal? Some record of sorts."

"You are confusing a madman for a mastermind, Lord Plagueis," his Master rebuked. He dismissed the theory with a wave. "When my Master spoke of Ramage, it was discouraging: a broken man, crushed by the pursuit of unlimited power. Have I not ever told you how Vectivus assumed the mantle?"

"No, Master," said Plagueis, who lifted his shoulders incrementally. "I always assumed it was through the Rite of Ascension."

The Rite of Ascension was, Plagueis supposed, the Sith equivalent to the famed Jedi Trials wherein a Padawan learner, the lowest rank in the Jedi Order, undergoes a series of rigorous challenges to demonstrate his skills and prove his worthiness for promotion to the rank of Knight. It wasn't a perfect parallel, however. While Plagueis was courteous enough to concede the fact that Jedi were expertly trained under exacting standards, compared to the exigencies of Sith apprenticeship, the Jedi were rank amateurs. Bane's instruction left no room for bacta tanks and training 'sabers and blasters switched to the stun setting. For a Jedi, trials lasted a week; for a Sith, trials lasted a lifetime.

Still, the comparison was apt in that the Rite, like the Trials, determined a promotion. Of course, in another marked difference from their enemies, the Sith had no need of extraneous ranks. The Rule of Two proscribed the need for Padawans, Knights, High Councils, and Grand Masters. The promotion, in this instance, was when an aspirant apprentice pried Mastery from the cold, dead hands of his teacher. The Rite of Ascension was nothing less than the battle to the death between the two Lords of the Sith: a spectacle quite unlike any to be found in the hallowed halls of the Jedi Temple.

"I suppose it was," granted Tenebrous, "technically."

Plagueis's smooth brow rumpled at the term. "Technically, Master?"

Tenebrous stepped out of the cone of sunlight projecting from the window and inclined his head. "Vectivus and Ramage fought, per the Rite, but it was not my Master who initiated it."

"Why would Ramage want to kill his apprentice?" Plagueis asked, intrigued. "Self-preservation?"

"Nothing that sensible, I'm afraid," sighed the Bith. "No, Ramage was apparently incoherent at the time of the fight, offering little by way of justification—unless you count disjointed omens."

"What did he say?"

It was clear that if Tenebrous could have scowled, he would have. His tone took an edge as sharp as a vibroblade. "No one was on-hand to transcribe their confrontation, Lord Plagueis."

Plagueis dipped his head, weathering the rebuke, but lifted his eyes back to his Master in silent persistence.

Tenebrous brushed lint off the shoulder of his tunic and sighed. "If memory serves, Vectivus said Ramage was muttering apologies the entire time, but claimed the need to avert a coming darkness."

"Curious," Plagueis remarked. "From what you've told me, that was not an apt description of Lord Vectivus."

Though he had never met Darth Vectivus in the flesh, Plagueis had become intimately familiar with the late Sith Lord courtesy of lectures and tales from Tenebrous that had been parsed out to Plagueis over the span of fifty-two years. Vectivus had been a human male and an anomaly among the Sith as much as Plagueis himself was. Like his apprentice's future pupil, Vectivus was only mildly interested galactic conquest; also like Plagueis, he held little to no personal hatred of the Jedi Order, merely viewing them as obstacles to a limitless life. But whereas Plagueis had developed an interest in achieving immortal life that, admittedly, bordered on obsessive, Vectivus had consigned himself to the so-called "reality of fate" and spent the remainder of his rule to the pursuit of personal pleasure and satisfaction. According to Tenebrous, the "woolly-headed liberal" swan-dived freely down the slope of obesity; he neglected the Sith archives in favor of social gatherings with friends made as his alter-ego, a wealthy mining magnate; and lightsaber sparring and excursions to Sith strongholds across the galaxy were replaced by hobbies of artistry and architecture. Ultimately, Vectivus enjoyed his final years on his asteroid-retreat near Bimmiel and died there, surrounded by friends and family.

Which was a more pleasant way of saying that Vectivus died when Tenebrous, unleashing his full ire, slaughtered the inner circle and beat Vectivus to death with one of the marble busts that were said to have lined the walls of his abode.

"No," said Tenebrous, whose wistful tone suggested to Plagueis that the Bith had also just ruminated over the abridged tragedy of Darth Vectivus. "Not unless you count his dabbling with interior design, which really _was_ appalling."

Plagueis refused to derail the conversation further. "Did Vectivus ever find out to what Ramage was referring?"

Snapped from his reverie, Tenebrous shrugged. "He hadn't the foggiest, really. Though I remember that I found it peculiar when he told me that, during the fight, Ramage was apparently unconcerned with self-defense. According to Vectivus, the duel was short: Ramage accepted blows freely and attacked recklessly, constantly on the offensive even the tide had turned against him."

"He fought without regard for his own life," Plagueis concluded in disbelief. "How very _Jedi_."

"That isn't the weirdest part," his Master, raising a finger. "Vectivus told me that Ramage continued to attack after suffering half a dozen mortal wounds. When he was finally subdued, he leaned in close and said one word."

"Which was?"

Tenebrous chuckled. "Apocalypse."

Plagueis squinted in contemplation. "And then he died?"

"No, _then_ he tried to rip out my Master's throat with his teeth. Vectivus crushed his windpipe and Ramage choked to death on the floor."

"How dignified," snorted Plagueis, his tone dry. "That's how I must go, if the time comes."

"If?"

"If," Plagueis repeatedly firmly.

Tenebrous scratched his puggish chin in silence. Then, he said: "Well, it's funny you should mention that."

Plagueis said nothing, waiting for elaboration.

"Your theory has merits," Tenebrous said, "but your sudden fascination leads me to believe we'll need bota to test it."

"Yes, my lord."

"Given relevant information so scarce, this will likely take a great deal of time." Tenebrous went on.

"Very likely, my lord," Plagueis agreed, albeit very carefully.

"It is heretical, you know," Tenebrous remarked idly, "what you propose we do. It was Lord Bane's intention to avoid destructive pursuits such as these."

There it was, Plagueis mused. The ever-present obstacle: the specter of Darth Bane, looming over each of his successors, like an imperious judge preparing to sentence a shackled prisoner to death. Or perhaps, Plagueis reconsidered, Bane was more like the shackles themselves—tethering the Sith to a set of instructions that, while necessary to rescue the order from the vortex of savagery and stupidity, had slowly faded into obsolescence. The seminal Master had perished nine centuries ago, and yet in some ways he was stronger than ever. Bane had been deified in the years after his death, Plagueis knew; the feats of power ascribed to him were, in their own way, as incredible as much of those of the ancients. According to the records left by various scribes, Bane was said to have, among other things, flattened colossal buildings in a single push of Force energy and sheltered himself from a torrential downpour with only a lightsaber, mastery of which he supposedly perfected in only a few years. While Plagueis acknowledged that such displays were not technically impossible, he'd read enough contemporary fiction over the years recognize hack writing when he saw it. Unfortunately, the Sith archives were not lacking in such descriptions—which, over the years, had been interpreted as literal truth by cultists and enthusiasts alike.

Plagueis had never been able to gauge the true extent of Tenebrous's religiosity on all things Bane. It was possible he shared his apprentice's skepticism on Bane's purported _power_, but one thing had been certain since the beginning: Darth Tenebrous was loyal to Bane's _vision_. And now, a sense of worry began to seep into Plagueis that such traditionalism would dash his hopes forever.

"According to Lady Zannah," Plagueis said, slowly, "Lord Bane in fact made an effort to prolong his life even in his dying moments."

"Lies," spat Tenebrous, rearing like a viper prepared to strike, "libel to besmirch the reputation of the Sith'ari."

Plagueis resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the term. The Sith'ari referred to an ancient prophecy about a leader whose arrival would signal the evolution of the Sith: that the Sith'ari, free of all limitations and perfection personified, would bring the order to its ultimate victory. Plagueis and Tenebrous had argued the subject only once over the years. Plagueis derided the prophecy as a baseless myth; Tenebrous defended Bane's claim to the title. He refuted the notion of Bane's limitless might, reminding his Master that Bane had succumbed to death like any other; Tenebrous responded that Bane's transcendence was by _accepting_ inexorable demise. Plagueis countered that death would logically not befall a perfect being; Tenebrous concluded by breaking all of Plagueis's ribs.

"I'd have thought you of all people would be circumspect," his Master groused. "Zannah claimed Bane tried to _possess_ her—by literally injecting her body with his consciousness." He barked out a harsh laugh. "As if such a thing were possible."

"If it was, it died with Bane," Plagueis conceded.

"Regardless," Tenebrous said, his tone lighter, "it is appropriate that you reference their battle. Zannah also claimed Bane attacked her because he felt she was unfit to succeed him, consumed by complacency."

Plagueis tensed, realizing his mistake.

"We find ourselves in a rather disturbing parallel, Lord Plagueis," the Bith noted in neutral tones. "Our own partnership has endured fifty-two standard years, longer than most."

"Yours with Vectivus was longer still," Plagueis responded. He had hoped his tone would have been measured, but a slight fluctuation betrayed his discomfort. It was registered by Tenebrous, sharp as ever, who tilted his head incrementally.

"Only because I believed Vectivus, in his laziness, had kept secrets from me," Tenebrous countered. "But when I realized that the ability to create and coordinate Force phantoms was his only contribution to the Sith—that I had long ago mastered—I disposed of him." He fell silent for a moment. "With you, I have withheld nothing; you've earned knowledge of all my powers and I have helped you hone them. You have no excuse."

Tenebrous stepped from the shadows and came to stand before Plagueis, who restrained himself from flinching, but only barely. "The truth is that your apprenticeship has been completed for years and, in that time, I have waited for you to make your move. But you haven't."

Plagueis felt himself begin the slow, but inevitable slide into desperation. "It is testament to the strength of our partnership, Master. I believe that, together, we can uncov—"

"You confuse this cooperation for a friendship, Plagueis," Tenebrous interrupted, his tone firm but not harsh, yet Plagueis nevertheless winced. "You, the consummate logician and self-professed rationalist, are deluded. Bane's law has served this order for a millennium. We have, thanks to his vision, thrived in the shadows: we have accumulated the vast wealth you stand to inherit; we have maintained the network of informants, spies, and agents he initiated; we have forged alliances with the titans of commerce and industry. These weapons must be used by you, or your apprentice, or his apprentice after him and so on down the line—used against the Jedi and the Republic. And yet you have no interest in such victory. Only in prolonging a life that, until you accept your destiny, has no worth."

Eternal life _is_ the ultimate victory, Plagueis snarled—but not really. His rapidly unfurling rage was crushed beneath the weight of an entirely healthy sense of fear. Instead, he rooted himself in silence, and in the Force, resolved to endure the tirade without revealing his conflicting emotions.

"You are deluded," Tenebrous repeated softly. "And I have failed you and Bane both by tolerating it." He shook his head. "But no longer."

"I'm old, Plagueis," he sighed, "Mine is a relatively short-lived species, as you know; a measly average of eighty-five years. The Force has seen fit to grant me a life beyond that. I suspect that, left to the mercy of nature, I have another twenty years or better before me. By all rights, I should have died years ago. But now I must consider using my remaining time to correct my error and preserve the integrity of the Sith."

"With that in mind, this is _my_ proposal," Tenebrous began, placing his hands on Plagueis's shoulders. "We will, together, pursue this line of inquiry about Ramage and bota and eternal life, wherever it may lead us." When Plagueis raised his head in suspicion, Tenebrous added, "But only for the time remaining until Hego Damask must rejoin the civilized galaxy."

"If, at the end of that time," Tenebrous continued, "we have not found the answer, then we proceed with the Ascension." He paused, perhaps to allow the weight of the words to crush Plagueis's spirit further. "We'll duel to kill, Plagueis. If you can summon the ferocity needed to best me, perhaps you'll lead the Sith to victory." He offered another grotesque approximation of a smile. "If you fail, then I'll have enough time to train a worthier candidate."

Numb with anxiety, Plagueis could only force a stiff nod. Less than six standard months to unravel the universe's most enduring, most elusive mystery.

No pressure.

**I typically try to post a chapter once a week, but dissatisfaction with Sunday's addition and school work procrastination inspired me to write a continuation. Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate and thanks to the readers and reviewers. Feel free to review; comments and criticisms are always desired.**

**Bota is a plant whose Force-enhancing effects originated in the Clone Wars: Med Star Duology by Michael Reaves**

**Darth Vectivus is a Sith Lord who was first featured in Legacy of the Force: Betrayal by Aaron Allston alongside his Force phantom technique**

**The prophecy of the Sith'ari has a long, windy history in the EU, but featured most prominently in the Darth Bane Trilogy by Drew Karpyshyn**


	4. The Archives

**Chapter 3:**

**The Archives**

United by an express goal, if not underlying motivation, the two Lords of the Sith agreed to begin their work immediately and in earnest. Darth Tenebrous promptly initiated a series of calls to the most important figures in Rugess Nome's professional life, informing them that he would be incommunicado for an estimated six standard months. The first calls, to his accountants and brokers, went smoothly; they were ordered to follow Nome's standard operating procedure for times when their employer was unavailable. The last, to Kerred Santhe and his inner circle, were decidedly less pleasant: Plagueis, who had happened to glimpse his Master conferring with Santhe for the second time that day, swore that the human's face was so mottled with anger that the hologram briefly flared purple.

For Plagueis himself, no such effort was required. His own alter-ego, Hego Damask, was not a fabulously wealthy and well-connected starship designer. Nor was he a financier, banker, or entrepreneur—the three careers so commonly associated with his species that the expectation bordered on offensive stereotype. Rather, Damask was an academician: a reputable, if not legendary, professor of galactic history at one of the finest universities in the Mid-Rim. Tenebrous had long derided the selection, but Plagueis had felt inadequate in any other arena: his was an inquisitive mind and, though Tenebrous had urged him to pursue a career with the InterGalactic Banking Clan—arguing that placement within such a powerful organization would only yield extraordinary dividends for the Sith—Plagueis had resolved. Damask had, for twenty years and across a dozen worlds, assumed a position of authority and, later, influence over some of the sharpest minds of each new generation. He had mentored aforementioned bankers, entrepreneurs, and financiers—as well as actors and actresses; philanthropists, philosophers, and politicians; and even royalty. His current placement, in fact, owed to his relationship with Bon Tapalo, a former pupil who had eventually assumed the throne of the planet Naboo. Tapalo's patronage guaranteed Damask not only an unrivaled degree of job security, but also wages considerably higher than alternative offers.

Additionally, a professorial calendar afforded Damask a substantial amount of free time, in which he continued his studies of the Force and various experiments. All things considered, it was an inspired choice. But as Plagueis waited for his Master to complete Nome's business, he couldn't help but note the complete absence of anyone whom might be affected by his own travels. He supposed that Tenebrous's situation shouldn't be a source of envy; none of those whom his Master was in the process of contacting could be rightly considered friends of Rugess Nome. The accountants, analysts, and attorneys barely qualified as acquaintances—Plagueis couldn't be sure that Tenebrous even knew their names. Classifying Santhe and his minions was an even more difficult challenge. The mogul's contempt for his Master had become increasingly more open; were it not for the financial repercussions, Plagueis suspected that Santhe would have tried long ago to have Tenebrous killed. Santhe occupied a unique intersection: he was ally and enemy, pawn and threat.

Plagueis knew in all three hearts that if this venture failed and he was forced to duel his Master and—if by some miraculous maneuver on his part or faltering footstep on Tenebrous's—he won, then he would, along with the Bith's expansive resources, inherit the complex problem of Kerred Santhe. The prospect did not please him, but with any luck, this operation would be successful and he'd conquer Santhe like he would the Jedi and the Republic: by outliving them all.

Still, Tenebrous's blunt clarification of his relationship with Plagueis served as a harsh reminder that a Sith Lord's demanding life had no room for something as superfluous as friendships. He knew that the Jedi Order had expressly forbade personal relationships for centuries and often wondered if Tenebrous or his predecessors ever realized, let alone appreciated, the irony of just how much the two organizations had in common. The thought quirked a smile on Plagueis's lips as Tenebrous leaned through the threshold.

"Come," he said, beckoning with his hand. Plagueis stood up from the chair and followed his Master out the door, through the corridor, down the wide staircase, and out into the gigantic foyer. Tenebrous snapped his fingers and the hollow click reverberated throughout the empty space. Then, a silver protocol droid shuffled in through an adjacent doorway, carrying the traveling cloaks of both Sith Lords. Tenebrous accepted both, dismissed the droid with a nod, and passed the lighter one to Plagueis.

"Have you determined our next course of action?" He asked as he shrugged on the cloak. Plagueis, having had just put his long arms through the sleeves, halted and flicked his gaze to the side in consideration.

"We have to locate a supply of bota," he said.

Tenebrous spread his arms broadly. "Do you know where we might find some?"

"I don't," admitted Plagueis, looking down. "I was hoping you might."

"I haven't a clue," Tenebrous said, shrugging, "and neither did Vectivus, to my knowledge."

Plagueis twisted his mouth in consideration. "What happened to Ramage's possessions upon his death?"

"They were transferred to my Master, per the law. But no bota."

Plagueis nodded. "What did he do with them?"

Tenebrous cocked his head, in an apparent effort to recall. "Some assets were liquidated—"

"Not the money," Plagueis interrupted, raising a hand. "The material. Ramage was a scientist. He had to have left journals, notes, some sort of paper trail."

"If he did, I never saw them," Tenebrous insisted. He fell silent and moved his head again, this time looking past Plagueis's right shoulder. "But if they exist, they could only be in one place."

Plagueis glanced at his Master, eyes widening in realization.

"The Archives."

White streams of light gave the illusion of elasticity, snapping back to distant stars as the _Shadow Hand_ emerged from hyperspace. The private starship of Rugess Nome, the vessel was scarcely larger than the standard Republic starfighter and had been likened by Plagueis to "an exotic, mutated hawk-bat." A slightly elongated sphere bracketed between a pair of curved wings, the ship was constructed at great expense by Nome and a small team of engineers in private. Exactly how his Master had managed to maintain the secrecy was unknown to Plagueis; it was equally possible that the assemblers had been suitably bribed, quietly murdered, or persuaded through the Force to remain silent. The _Shadow Hand_'s designs had traceable origins in the vessels of the Sith Empire some three millennia prior, but Nome had brilliantly augmented its features to include more refined internal dampeners, a sophisticated navigation system, a faster and more efficient hyperdrive, and a fully functioning, if temporary, cloaking device.

Lounging in the co-pilot's seat beside Tenebrous, Darth Plagueis's gaze was fixed forward. Rapidly approaching, the maroon gas giant known to the Sith as Serenity threatened to engulf the viewport. As the _Shadow Hand_ hurtled closer, cajoled onward by his Master's skillful hands, another object began to swell into view—though exponentially smaller than its domineering neighbor.

This was Tranquility, Serenity's lone satellite, and the point of destination for the Sith. The system that encompassed Serenity and Tranquility had been discovered by space-farers under the employ of the Sith, strategically selected for its placement on the border of the territories designated by galactic cartographers as the Unknown Regions and Wild Space.

A floating ball of smooth rock, Tranquility lacked the pleasant qualities of Abridon. Consequently, the system was even further down the infinite list of hot-spots for explorers and tourists—a fact confirmed by the extensive network of sensors that had littered the system for centuries. For these reasons, Tranquility was an ideal location to hold the Sith Archives. Constructed on Tranquility's cheerless surface in the years after Darth Bane's death, the Archives was a colossal repository of Sith artifacts and material gathered by his successors throughout the better part of a thousand years.

The necessity of the Archives was evident: the order required a storehouse for objects of value—objects that, thanks to schismatic fighting in the Sith ranks and rapacious persecution from the Jedi, had become increasingly rare. Worlds historically aligned with the Sith, such as Korriban and Ziost, were relatively—if not completely—barren; their loot seized by Republic agents on behalf of the Jedi, who then either scattered or destroyed them. While Plagueis refused to be manacled to the past, he could not deny the importance of such items: the amulets, talismans, scrolls, and, most important of all, Holocrons. The Republic, again on behalf of the Jedi, had encouraged the widespread belief that their purge had been entirely successful, likely to discourage unauthorized prodding into such matters. But Plagueis knew this to be nothing more than propaganda, for the Archives teemed with knowledge. Not to the extent of Sith empires at their apex, no, but it was one of the single largest collections of Force-related lore in recorded history—second only to the libraries of the Jedi Order on Coruscant.

This fact bolstered the need for the Archives' remote placement. Created and forged by the Sith, each of the countless items in the Archives resonated with what historians and Jedi alike referred to as "the dark side." The ominous phrase had even found common usage among the ancient Sith and had endured until the time of Bane. In the centuries since, it had been phased out by more progressive Sith Lords, who wished to divorce themselves from the pitfalls of their order's murky history. Plagueis did not know which of his predecessors was the first to break from this tradition, but he supported the decision all the same. The dark side was, in his estimation, a pejorative term constructed to rob the Sith of any moral claim and, more practically, deny them willing adherents. The ancients had been utter fools to not only tolerate it, but worse, to _embrace_ it. Could there be any wonder that the Sith had lost the wars of morale and morality as utterly as they had military? Plagueis wasn't deluded; he acknowledged that a successful Sith was a ruthless Sith, that murder and torture were tools to be used when necessary. But he also knew, too, that the Jedi Knights had accumulated a body count that absolutely _dwarfed_ the Sith—a fact particularly emphasized in the years since Bane initiated the Rule of Two.

Semantics aside, the artifacts emanated a very _real_ energy detectable by anyone with a modicum of Force sensitivity. Accordingly, they had to be stashed far from any world or system that might reasonably expect visitation by a Jedi Knight.

The _Shadow Hand_ made its descent through Tranquility's thin, clear atmosphere and even protected by the starship's thick hull, Plagueis felt the sensation of gathered Force energy crawl over his flesh. It was an exhilarating experience, not unlike a mundane life-form on one of a million worlds wading out into the waters of an ocean, feeling it enclose around him, rocked by its currents.

He registered the ship come to a rest and rose almost simultaneously with his Master. The cabin depressurized as the exit ramp lowered, exposing them to Tranquility's less-than-optimal environment. But rather than don the suits and helmets that would have been necessary for anyone bereft of the Force, Plagueis fell into unfazed step behind Tenebrous as they disembarked the _Shadow Hand_.

A fortuitous feature of Tranquility was that its thin-atmosphere made exposure unbearable for most sentients without artificial countermeasures. Plagueis had seen humans suffocate in less than two standard minutes beneath the oppressive, intangible forces that governed the moon. But as masters of the Force, he and his Master were protected from such dangers. The moment their boots touched the ground, each Sith Lord created a bubble of Force energy that, on neutral ground, would have been imperceptible to any but a trained Force adept. But here, stooped in the literal and metaphysical shadow of the Archives, the bubbles manifested in a slight distortion, similar to the visible waves of scorching heat on dry worlds. The strength of the collection was considerable; conjuring Force shields of that strength would have been challenging on neutral ground. But here, the effort was negligible; reaction instantaneous to desire.

Over the years, the globe of energy pulsating from the Archives walls' had grown to encompass the entire moon. The augmentation was stronger the more proximate one was to the building, but it could be felt everywhere on its surface. Sith lore referred to this phenomenon as a "dark side nexus" and dozens of such locations had been documented for millennia. How exactly this worked on a biological level, Plagueis could only guess, but his prevailing theory was that the surplus of energy simply afforded the midi-chlorians more to draw from than what would otherwise be available. It was in places such as these that he could conceive of feats of strength that were ascribed to figures such as Bane: he felt powerful enough to crush the _Shadow Hand_ as easily as a sheet of flimsiplast in a clenched fist, if so inclined. But that simply would not do.

The likelihood that even this surge would be insignificant next to the influence of bota served only to excite him.

Despite its importance, the building that contained the Archives was not a grandiose edifice. A dome constructed of durasteel and half a dozen other nigh-indestructible ores, it was rather like a pimple on a corpse—a pockmark on a cold stretch of land that otherwise lacked blemish. As they narrowed the remaining distance of some six meters, the boxy entrance that jutted forth from the building's circumference was bisected by a line of white light. The line widened as the massive doors separated, revealing three figures of varying build and height, clad in bulky enviro-suits. They stood in standard triangular formation: the larger two in the back, with the smallest—shorter only by half a dozen centimeters, Plagueis noted—standing in front, like the tip of a spear. Across each of their arms lay the barrels of sleek blaster rifles. Neither Tenebrous nor Plagueis broke stride at sight of the figures. The Sith Lords didn't stop until they passed through the entrance and, under the powerful clinical lights, stood face-to-visor with the trio.

"Commander Rawn," Tenebrous said, nodding. He waved his hand and the doors began to close, separating the five of them from Tranquility's inhospitable biosphere.

"Lord Tenebrous," the lead figure responded. The voice seemed to lack any trace of femininity, but Plagueis knew that it wasn't filtered out by the suit's speaker. Tara Rawn, security chief of the Sith Archives, might have been a normal human female on an anatomical level—but comparisons stopped there. The helmet turned to Plagueis, who recognized her pale, scarred face through the visor. "Lord Plagueis."

"Commander Rawn," he repeated, his lips quirking into a brief smile that Rawn did not return.

"This way, my lords," she said, swinging around to march further into the facility. The other two stepped back crisply, their movements suggesting the possibility that they were droids rather than organic soldiers, though Plagueis knew this was not the case. Tenebrous followed and assumed a steady pace by the commander. Plagueis, disinterested in her company, maintained a healthy distance.

The entrance tunnel extended only a distance of some five meters before it opened up into the giant, yawning dome. Buzzing with activity, the Archives might have been a common speeder factory. Dozens of droids, varying in appearance across a long spectrum, were fast at work: cataloguing, documenting, polishing, scanning, and treating the piles of trinkets and artifacts—which spanned an even greater spectrum still. Along the building's walls, removed from the inventory, stood a number of unarmed but armored soldiers. Blaster weapons were strictly prohibited in the Archives, Plagueis noted as Rawn and her companions relinquished their weapons to an attending droid and began to remove the enviro-suits, unnecessary with the artificial life-support system provided by the Archives.

The suit collapsed into a heap around Rawn's ankles, like a cocoon breaking away to reveal a butterfly. Except, well, not really: tall for a human female, Rawn was dangerously pale—courtesy of this long assignment—which only served to emphasize the various scars and tattoos that littered her skin. Her hair was practically non-existent, routinely shaved down to a course stubble that encompassed her head. Her short-sleeved shirt stretched over a muscular physique that, while not grotesque in its power, was certainly more developed than the average human. Rawn shattered the myth of the beautiful soldier; war was ugly, she had once told him, so how could those who wage it be any different?

"My lords," she began, "I was surprised to hear you were coming. This trip wasn't scheduled."

"A sudden development necessitated our presence here," Tenebrous explained. Rawn nodded and looked away, seemingly confused but too disciplined to demand answers.

Disinterested in protracting their limited time by engaging in trivial conversation with a woman incapable of it, Plagueis stepped forward. "Contact the Archivist and tell him we're on our way."

So extensive were the Sith Archives that the dome constituted only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Ten other levels had been constructed beneath Tranquility's surface, burrowing deep into the rock. Plagueis had seen the facility's blueprints and had compared it visually to a common screw, the point of which aimed menacingly towards the moon's center.

The lift doors opened at Level 8, revealing a snug corridor that stretched some distance into another threshold. The walls were lined with ancient parchment covered with the hieroglyphs of the Sith language, shielded from physical contact by thick panes of transparisteel. Plagueis and Tenebrous followed the corridor in silence until it opened into a large office.

In the back, stooped over a pyramidal hunk of rock that was a Sith Holocron, was a droid. Like Plagueis, he was unnaturally thin for his height; his shell was a dark, polished gray and a pair of photoreceptors were framed behind a faceplate that evoked images of the iconic mask of the fabled Darth Revan. As the Sith Lords approached, the droid freed itself from his analytical trance and turned his head in their direction; the photoreceptors burned with a yellow glow in the artificial approximation of Sith eyes.

"Ah, the wayward Lords of the Sith return. Commander Rawn had her doubts, but I assured her you were simply _lazy_ rather than dead."

Plagueis smiled. This was the Archivist: an ancient droid whose origins were shrouded in mystery. While his Master suggested that the droid had been constructed by an adept of the Bane line, the Archivist's design characteristics and seeming omniscience on all matters Sith hinted at a much longer life—perhaps in a similar role for the ancients and their series of empires. The droid had resisted all attempts to ascertain such information. But whether for a single millennium or ten, the Archivist had been an invaluable asset to the Sith. Under his guidance, the order had cultivated a more comprehensive understanding of the Force with each new generation—a pattern of which Plagueis was determined to culminate.

"Greetings, Master Archivist," Plagueis said with a nod. "We apologize for our sparse visi—"

"_We_ do no such thing," snapped Tenebrous, who moved to stand before the droid. "Our infrequent trips here are to your benefit, Scrapheap: the less I see of you, the less reason I have to dissemble you and sell your parts to Jawas."

The droid lifted a six digit hand to its faceplate, just touching the spot where a mouth would have been. "My word, a wretched fate indeed." The Archivist dropped his hand, along with his synthesized pitch. "But a comparative mercy, no doubt, next to the sense of utter despair you must feel in this place of knowledge."

An awkward silence fell. Amused, Plagueis shifted his gaze from his Master to the droid, waiting for the next salvo. Then, Tenebrous turned and walked away, heading back to the lift. As he passed Plagueis, he muttered: "I'll take Rawn up on her offer of a security tour, lest I crush this antique. _You_ talk to it."

Plagueis nodded. As the lift doors closed behind him, ferrying Tenebrous back to the surface, he chuckled.

"I was hoping he'd be dead," the Archivist said. "Why haven't you killed him yet?"

The animosity between his Master and the Archivist was as deep and mutual as hatred could possibly be between an organic and a machine. The droid was a remarkable specimen, Plagueis understood, to the extent that he had long considered the Archivist as substantive as a living creature. He'd long replaced the pronoun 'it' with 'he' in reference to the droid, who had confirmed his masculine programming. Neither Tenebrous nor the Archivist disclosed the exact origins of their feud, but Plagueis suspected it had much to do with his Master's disregard for droids as anything but tools as it did the Archivist's fussy disposition.

Plagueis crossed the office to stand next to the Archivist, looking down at the Holocron the droid had been examining. "Perhaps I'm simply waiting for _you_ to do it."

The Archivist responded with an approximate snort of derision. "Alas, such a task is beyond me."

Plagueis turned and grinned. "You've ran simulations, haven't you?"

The Archivist met his stare and hesitated before answering. "Forty-five thousand six hundred and eleven scenarios, to be exact. I was successful in only seven."

"Seven," Plagueis repeated, brow raising. "That's higher than some."

"Yes," the droid admitted. "My personal favorites involved a heavy, blunt object and a mythical creature known as the ysalim—"

"Master Archivist," Plagueis dared to interrupt, "respectfully, could we table talk of killing Lord Tenebrous for another time?"

The droid's photoreceptors blinked. "Of course, Lord Plagueis. Suffice it to say that though your Master is a buffoon of the highest order, he is exceptionally hard to kill."

"With your help, I might not ever have to find that out the hard way," said Plagueis mildly.

The droid steepled its slender digits together. "How may I be of service?"

"I require access to the writings of Darth Ramage," Plagueis answered. "I have to find a supply of bota."

The Archivist was silent for a moment, but his head tilted quizzically, scouring his extensive databanks for relevant information. "Ah, the ever-elusive bota. A cursory analysis indicates that bota is a mind-bogglingly rare—"

"I know what it is, Master Archivist," Plagueis said, gently. "What I don't know is where to find it."

The droid clicked his fingers together. "I am sorry to say that Lord Ramage's journals do not contain a name or coordinates of such a location, suggesting either he intended to conceal such information or believed the plant to be much more common than what we now know to be the case."

Exasperated, Plagueis exhaled forcefully. "Can it be possible that my efforts are made undone by a methodological error?"

"I cannot speak to your efforts, sir, but I can tell you what is and what is not to be found in records of your predecessors."

Plagueis clenched his jaw, struggling to contain his frustration. Detecting a rattling noise, he flicked his gaze to the desk and saw that the Holocron was trembling, along with the Archivist's loose instruments. Remembering that his powers were multiplied here, Plagueis resolved to crush his growing anger, realizing one outburst might very well cause the building to implode.

The Archivist seemed to realize it as well. Raising a thin digit, he said: "If your goal is to obtain Lord Ramage's knowledge, may I suggest an alternative method?"

Plagueis lifted his eyes.

"Darth Ramage did not secure the bota, conduct his experiments, or develop his conclusions in isolation, Lord Plagueis," the Archivist explained. "He is known to have conducted a journey across the galaxy, seeking out other organizations known to practice the ways of the Force."

Plagueis inhaled, daring to hope. "How long did that take?"

"Nine years, four months, twenty-six days, and five hours," the Archivist answered immediately, "standard count."

Plagueis closed his eyes in resignation. "I'm afraid I don't have that kind of time, my friend."

"Ah, but you don't need it," the Archivist answered excitedly. "We don't have names or coordinates with respect to bota, but we _do_ know where he went and which cults he met."

His eyes snapped open.

"Show me."

**Thanks to jadesfire22 and especially Asmarath for the reviews and comments, which are always welcome. Hope you enjoy this chapter, we're getting ever closer to some classic Star Wars action. **

**~AC**


	5. Aggressive Negotiations

**Chapter 4**

**Aggressive Negotiations**

Stars zapped into jets of light that merged, coalescing into a corridor that billowed and swirled with bluish-white flares. For the uninitiated, a hyperspace jump was an utter spectacle unlike any to be found in the galaxy, a very literal step from the threshold of the mundane realm into another world. For Darth Plagueis, who had traveled interstellar distances more times than he'd cared to count, the experience had lost much of its luster. It was a dull, tedious necessity that served only to remind him of his limitations as an adept. He had come across rumors throughout his studies: tales of Force-users who, in the farthest reaches of the galaxy, practiced arcane rituals that enabled them to fold space and time. Teleportation, in other words, like the fictional characters from children's holofilms. Whether the rumors were true was immaterial; once Plagueis achieved his task, he would be able to dedicate a thousand lifetimes—a million lifetimes, if need be—to obtain such a power. Then one would no longer need to waste time in such inefficient modes of transportation.

Speed and distance tore Tranquility's borrowed energy from him almost immediately, leaving him only with his formidable, but normal, powers. The separation, though expected, always grieved him; he likened it to a cripple regaining full use of his limbs, only to promptly revert to an invalid.

A melancholy sigh hissed through his lips. He pivoted in the co-pilot's chair, facing his Master.

"Did the coordinates compute, my lord?"

The Bith waved a hand, activating the auto-pilot function, and leaned back in his chair. "They did. The nav. system has identified the world as Bunduki, a planet on the fringes of the Pacanth Reach."

"The Pacanth Reach? That sounds familiar, but I can't quite place the reference..."

"It's home to the Epicanthix," Darth Tenebrous provided, his tone dismissive.

Plagueis nodded. "They are said to be peerless warriors."

If Tenebrous could have rolled his eyes, he would have. "They say that about _every_ species and group. The ease with which reputations can become engorged is truly horrific in this information age, Plagueis. You can hardly throw a stone in any direction without hitting an unstoppable warrior."

Plagueis grinned. "I take it you believe the reputation is undeserved?"

Tenebrous sniffed—an odd noise for one who lacked a proper nose. "I've tangled with them on more than one occasion. They fight well enough, I suppose, but for a Sith? They're fodder."

It was difficult to discern an objective assessment from his Master's judgment. Plagueis knew Tenebrous to be a braggart of the highest order; his remarks could have derived from nothing other than arrogance. On the other hand, despite his peculiar, harmless appearance—Plagueis knew that, even more than Muuns, Biths were hardly reputable for their fearsomeness—Tenebrous was an exemplary warrior even by Bane's enduring, fierce standards. Which made his Master's next confession all the more sobering.

"The Followers of Palawa, on the other hand," Tenebrous said, tilting his head, "they may prove to be... _challenging_."

Plagueis contemplated this in silence. Though the Followers may have technically predated even the Jedi Order, they were shrouded in mystery; a fact that owed much to the Jedi's calculated age-old attempts to consign other groups of Force adepts to obscurity—attempts that had only increased since the Ruusan Reformations that saw the defeat and supposed destruction of the Sith Order and the reorganization of the Galactic Republic. But even their most extensive efforts to misinform the public could not penetrate the integrity of the Sith Archives, and so Plagueis had access to the true history of the Followers of Palawa.

Founded twenty-five thousand years ago, the Followers had been founded on the planet after which their group was named. In a galaxy devoid of Jedi and Sith, they might have enjoyed unparalleled influence. But an even older, more insidious force soon came into play: politics. Dissent regarding the organization's direction drove a prominent member and her supporters to defect to a splinter group of proto-Jedi under the charismatic warlord Xendor in what was now known as the First Great Schism. Though Xendor's faction was ultimately defeated, the victorious but paranoid Jedi unleashed their full scrutiny on the remaining Followers—even those uninvolved in the conflict. The ensuing clash was milder and shorter than the preceding Schism; ravaged Palawa was conquered by the Jedi and the surviving Followers scattered to the proverbial winds. According to Plagueis's brief research, courtesy of the Archivist, they had become a nomadic group that had not been encountered in force since.

If this had been the complete history of the Followers, Plagueis might not have shared his Master's concern. But the other prominent bit of trivia about the Followers was that they were the originators and developers of Teräs Käsi.

Roughly translated to "steel hands" in Basic, Teräs Käsi was a martial art discipline that was known throughout the galaxy for its difficulty to master. Various techniques of self-defense numbered in the hundreds of thousands, yet Teräs Käsi set the standard for effectiveness. Though details about the conflict on Palawa were relatively scarce, Plagueis knew that despite the ancient Jedi's superior technology, numbers, and Force mastery, the Followers had dominated the fight initially—decimating Knights left and right on the battlefield with vastly superior martial prowess. Plagueis was wise enough to acknowledge that this fact may have been exacerbated by the Jedi Order's exercise of restraint. Eventually, the Followers folded under the aforementioned advantages of their enemies.

Those who had not died or fled during the conflict were captured and presented with an offer: join the Jedi Order or face imprisonment and probable execution. The rational survivors fervently accepted this gracious offer. Since then, Teräs Käsi had become a mainstay in the Jedi Temple. The fact that only a disproportionate few had managed to obtain mastery at any given time was further proof of its well-earned reputation.

"Then we should strive for a peaceful interaction," Plagueis concluded at last. He watched his Master rub his chin thoughtfully, clearly entertaining the prospects of a discourteous visit.

"Who knows," Tenebrous said, distantly, "we might not even find them here."

"You believe so?"

"I do not share your faith in Ramage, if that's what you're asking," was Tenebrous's idle answer.

"You're being needlessly skeptical," Plagueis retorted.

"It is a Sith Master's prerogative to be skeptical, my apprentice," Tenebrous remarked, dryly. "Otherwise, our order would have died long ago on some damned-fool idealistic crusade."

Plagueis folded his arms. "Lord Ramage's notes are very specific."

"Which concerns me," his Master nodded, "as it should you."

Plagueis said nothing, extending to his Master a tacit invitation to elaborate.

"The fact that he would leave such detailed instructions about his encounter with the Followers makes his decision to omit the location of the bota all the more perplexing."

Plagueis conceded this with further silence. Then, he said, "I'm not advocating blind acceptance or reliance. I'm just reminding you that this is the best lead we have." Pausing, he shrugged. "In fact, it's the _only_ lead we have."

Master mirrored apprentice, folding his arms and offering silent concession. He turned his head away and Plagueis watched the Bith's bulbous eyes blossom with white light reflected from the hyperspace tunnel outside the _Shadow Hand_. It was an eerie sight, more menacing than the fiery-yellow that flared in Plagueis's own eyes.

Tenebrous nodded absently, but his tone evinced disbelief. "Well argued, my apprentice. Still, I suspect there's far more to this mystery than meets the eye."

Realspace burst into existence, thousands of stars visible through the viewport. At the center of the transparisteel barrier was an orb that with various sections of blue, brown, and green. To Plagueis, Bunduki appeared to be one of a million average planets sprinkled throughout the galaxy. The navigation system offered little else about the world beyond its name, a fact from which Plagueis inferred that the Republic had no official presence in the system, which in turn validated its selection by the Followers—who apparently sought to elude the Jedi as much as the Sith did.

The _Shadow Hand_ made its final descent in compliance with the coordinates provided by Darth Ramage's journal. Cruising towards a large rainforest, the starship skimmed the canopy of trees and Plagueis noted the vibrancy of the forest was, in its own way, as potent as something one might expect to see from Kashyyyk or Felucia, planets legendary for the strength of their vegetation.

Though Tenebrous had elected not to activate the _Shadow Hand_'s cloaking device, their arrival was uninterrupted, though Plagueis did not know whether to attribute this fact to ignorance or disinterest on the part of the Followers or the Epicanthix. Regardless, Plagueis refused to become complacent by the lack of reaction. Heeding his Master's warnings, he resolved to be vigilant.

The _Shadow Hand_ settled in a large, vaguely circular clearing in the forest. As Tenebrous deactivated the systems, he glanced at Plagueis. "We're not far from Ramage's coordinates; presumably, the Followers are somewhere nearby."

Plagueis shrugged on his heavy cloak. "Still, we haven't time to waste, my lord." He moved to press the button that would lower the exit ramp, but Tenebrous's arm lashed out like a viper—a pale blur even to Plagueis—and closed around his wrist, halting the movement.

"Not so fast," he said, tone sibilant. "We must discuss the necessary precautions."

"I have my lightsaber," Plagueis said, indicating the long pommel dangling from his waist.

Tenebrous's pitch raised in surprise. "You would identify us as Sith? Or have them mistake us for Jedi?"

"Fine," Plagueis demurred with a curt nod. He reached for the pommel with his free hand and tossed it into the vacated co-pilot's chair.

"And then what?" Tenebrous hissed. "If it comes to battle, you wish to fight them unarmed?"

Plagueis squinted in exasperation. "What would you like me to do, hide it in my sleeve?"

"That would be preferable to flashing it to anyone in sight or leaving the damn thing here."

Plagueis exhaled forcefully. "As you wish." He flicked his first two fingers, as if walking them, and the discarded pommel flipped from the seat cushion into his waiting palm. He contemplated the weapon for a moment and then locked eyes with his Master.

"I propose we reveal ourselves to them," Plagueis said.

Tenebrous scoffed. "Next, you'll suggest we blindfold ourselves, insult their mothers, and hand them our blades."

Plagueis ignored the derision. "We have no reason to—"

"No, we have one _very_ important reason," Tenebrous interrupted, "called survival."

"Rawn and her commandos know our heritage," Plagueis countered, jerking his arm free from his Master's grip.

"Loyal employees."

"Petty mercenaries," Plagueis snapped, "The Sith and the Followers share a common enemy, which is basis enough for an alliance."

"Or they might fear our presence will arouse Jedi suspicion and kill us," Tenebrous responded, "or worse: capture and hand us over to the Jedi in order to leverage peace."

"They have had dozens of opportunities to ally with the Jedi throughout the years—"

"—And with the Sith, as well!"

"They likely expected the same treatment from the Sith that they received from the Jedi," Plagueis said, doggedly. "Circumstances have changed. We can show them the evolution of our order and exploit our commonality to obtain this information."

Tenebrous pondered this for nearly a full minute before snatching his own cloak and pushing the button himself.

"Very well, since this is _your_ bantha chase, we'll do it your way. Just one suggestion."

"My lord?" asked Plagueis, wearily.

"If this goes sour," Tenebrous said, dangerously, "you'd better hope they kill me."

They followed a trail through the forest for almost thirty minutes by Plagueis's estimation. Though the sun blazed through a cloudless sky, the considerable heat was diminished by the tree-tops; the humidity, on the other hand, coiled its way around the tree trunks, thickening the air. Nevertheless, Plagueis didn't mind: though myth likely depicted Sith Lords as vampiric monstrosities that flourished in darkness and arctic temperatures, he had always preferred warm, temperate worlds. Glancing to his left, he saw that Tenebrous was similarly unaffected by the heat—though it had less to do with predisposition than it did the Force. A common trait among any sufficiently trained adept—regardless of particular affiliation or alignment—was its supernatural physical effects. Jedi, Sith, and presumably the Followers they intended to meet, along with countless others, could endure outrageous conditions with only mild discomfort that would otherwise doom mundane life-forms.

Then, suddenly, Tenebrous came to a halt. A half-second later, before Plagueis could inquire as to why, he felt a gentle, almost imperceptible caress across his flesh. It would have raised the hair across his skin if he'd had any.

"We're close," his Master announced, quietly.

This phenomenon occurred whenever Plagueis detected a sufficiently Force-sensitive life-form and, presumably, other trained Force-users experienced something similar. The gentility of the sensation was dependent on two factors: the physical proximity of the source and its degree of sensitivity to the Force. Though the Force was understood by adepts and mundanes alike to surround and penetrate _all_ life-forms, it affected each of them to varying degrees. Consequently, this variety extended itself to the statistically negligible few among the galactic population who could actively manipulate the Force.

This was where midi-chlorians entered an already convoluted equation.

Plagueis knew that the Jedi had long romanticized midi-chlorians as messengers between a user's body and the greater Force, communicating its all-encompassing will; indeed, some of his own predecessors in the Sith Order had subscribed to such a notion. Plagueis, on the other hand, had long adopted a more atheistic view: he agreed with the Jedi that the Force was an omnipresent, perhaps _omnipotent_ energy field—but did not share their paradoxical tendency to deify it. The Force, Plagueis knew, was less a god than it was a tool to be exploited. The role of midi-chlorians, therefore, was nothing more than the biological intermediaries between the Force and the living body; a physical apparatus to make productive use of an otherwise useless phenomenon. Or, as Plagueis had rationalized it using another, more widely understood biological function: if the Force was air, midi-chlorians were the alveoli that lined the lungs of many organic species.

While a precise midi-chlorian count could only be identified by computer analysis of a recipient's blood sample, an adept of Plagueis's pedigree could reasonably deduce the magnitude of another's Force sensitivity based on the disruption he or she caused in his senses.

Though nervous energy threatened to quicken his stride, Plagueis forced himself to keep pace with Tenebrous, who managed to conceal all signs of his own potential anxiety. As the number of trees dwindled and the shrubbery began to recede, he felt the sensation intensify. With each passing step, his perspective sharpened: the intensity owed not to a single source of prodigious power, such as the Master who stalked silently beside him and presumably Plagueis himself, but rather _multiple_ anomalies of moderate potency.

At last, curtains of forest parted to reveal a clearing many times the size of the one where they had left the _Shadow Hand_. There, clustered in the center, was a group of robed figures. Some were standing, others were rising to their feet, while a handful remained seated in cross-legged positions on the grass. Tenebrous and Plagueis halted at the edge of the forest, not quite committing the literal, final step to intrusion. Plagueis's keen eyes darted quickly from one body to the next, counting twenty-seven of the figures. They strongly resembled humans, but certain characteristics suggested a few biological deviations. First was their considerable height; Plagueis estimated that the shortest among them stood taller than his Master by a few centimeters, while others would have stood eye-to-eye with Plagueis himself. Second was their elfin features: sharp cheekbones, pointed chins, slender noses; these figures lacked the abundance of human facial variety. Third was their pale complexions, which suggested a lack of flexible pigmentation. Despite the thick shelter provided by the treetops, Plagueis knew that the sun's persistent rays would have darkened a human.

He could not know for certain, but Plagueis deduced that these were members of the Epicanthix species. More importantly, their cautious expressions and postures indicated that his and Tenebrous's approach had been detected by them. Plagueis inhaled deeply: these were the Followers of Palawa.

Both groups stood a brief impasse that seemed to stretch into an uncomfortable eternity.

Plagueis glanced to Tenebrous for guidance, but the elder Sith Lord only responded by jutting his chin forward, as if to say: _this is your show_. Plagueis licked his lips and cleared his throat before saying, "Does any of you speak Basic?"

The seated Followers rose to their feet slowly, but none answered. Looks were exchanged and Plagueis detected the rustle of whispers. He chewed his lip in calculation, waiting for a response of some sort. Finally, the mutterings and pointed glances culminated with one of the Followers extricating himself from the cluster. He stepped forward and his robe, which appeared to be derived from animal skin, hissed as it scraped along the grass. He stopped, offered an unstable smile, and beckoned with both hands.

Plagueis shot another look at his Master, who, after a moment, nodded once. The Follower turned and walked back towards the group, with the Sith Lords following hesitantly. Plagueis glimpsed his Master's hand drift casually down towards his lightsaber pommel as they passed through the bisected group, which soon fell into step behind them.

The guide led them down another path opposite of the one they had taken. It led them through another knot of trees before opening into a smaller clearing half the size of the previous one. There, sitting between two relatively imposing Followers, was another robed figure—this one markedly different from the rest. Though voluminous robes that draped across him were no more extravagant than those of the others, this figure's small stature lent itself to an air of authority. Skeletal arms protruded from abyssal sleeves, bones barely concealed beneath pale flesh blemished with a constellation of liver spots. The sage was bald and his ears were shaped like primitive arrow-heads. But his weary eyes and hollow cheeks belied his age. Plagueis was careful not to approach; one sneeze and the old man might scatter into dust.

He raised a hand and the guide stopped. He smiled and the guide inclined his head while Plagueis glanced around in confusion. The Followers stepped back, removing themselves from the Sith by some distance of five meters.

Plagueis broke the silence with a raised brow and a single question: "...Basic?"

The sage smiled and gave a slow nod. "Yes."

Relief flooded through Plagueis's limbs. "You are the Followers of Palawa?"

Another smile, another nod. "Yes."

Plagueis hesitated until Tenebrous nodded his approval. "Do you know who we are?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why we're here?"

"Yes."

"Do you know any word beyond 'yes'?"

"No."

Plagueis blinked. The sage held his stare, before broadening his curious smile, revealing rotten teeth. A stuttering wheeze forced itself through crumbling lips; Plagueis realized the old man was laughing.

"Forgive me," the sage began after the laughing had ceased, his words slow. "But I have found, throughout my long life, that it is important to greet guests with a sense of humor. Don't you agree?"

Plagueis assumed the question was rhetorical. The sage shrugged, his shoulders creaking like an old door.

"Better than at the point of a weapon, I should think." He glanced at Tenebrous and then back to Plagueis. "But that is not a concept foreign to a Sith Lord, I understand."

Plagueis tensed, squaring his shoulders.

The sage attempted to wave dismissively. "Yes, I know who you are. You resonate with a certain kind of energy that has earned many labels, none of them flattering. Ours translates roughly to shadow-haze."

"Despite what you may perceive of our auras," Plagueis began, "my Master and I mean you no harm—"

"I should think not," the sage croaked, "under present circumstances."

Plagueis noted movement; his peripheral vision registered the Followers fanning out to the sides while his Force sight sensed the ones behind him assume a defensive array. He was unaware if some unspoken etiquette had been breached, but resolved to not let his wariness unravel the situation.

"We simply seek information, my friend," he continued, "in exchange, we would be willing to formalize our interaction into a formal alliance—"

A second wheezing chuckle escaped the sage's lips, his condescension palpable. "Perhaps you have been given a different history of Sith diplomacy than the one I lived."

Plagueis made note of the curious verb choice: _lived_? But his determination was fierce. "The Sith are different now, my friend. We honor our alliances, uphold our agreements. We know of the trespasses committed by the Jedi Order onto your noble heritage; we can help you—"

"We have no quarrel with the Jedi," the sage interrupted. "We have made peace with our history, we have accepted our defeat." He paused. "That is a wisdom your order has discarded time and time again."

Plagueis clenched his jaw. "Respectfully, it is not your advice we seek."

"You would rather have bota," the sage said.

The word elicited a cacophony of low whispers among the Followers, but the sage silenced them with another raised hand.

"I regret to inform you," the sage began, his smile sad, "that we gave the last of it to what I can only assume was your predecessor."

Plagueis said nothing; Tenebrous stepped forward. "You're lying. You wouldn't just hand that kind of power over to another without any left for yourselves."

The sage closed his eyes and wheezed out his mirth. "You are mistaken, friend. About a great many things."

Inhaling, he unfurled, rising to his feet. The action surprised Plagueis; the sage looked as old as any human he'd ever seen. The idea that he could stand completely unaided seemed so farfetched, yet the Followers flanking him did not offer any assistance, nor did the sage appear to seek any.

He stepped forward. "You mistake our goals for yours. We care not for _power_, only for peace."

Tenebrous snorted. "And yet you developed what is widely considered to be the most dangerous martial art in recorded history."

The sage shrugged. "Oh, I didn't say we were _naive_. A wise creature is one who does not leave himself at the mercy of others. We understand that there are those among us who would threaten our way of life and, though we will defend it if necessary, but we endeavor to avoid such things."

Tenebrous opened his mouth to respond, but the sage cut across him. "The _other_ mistake you make is your assumption that bota is power." He clasped his withered hands together. "It is a _curse_."

Plagueis struggled not to sneer openly. "A curse that strengthens you, enhances your powers—"

"At a cost," the sage chided. "You are powerful enough, I sense. But you are also young." He flicked his gaze to Tenebrous. "As is your Master. You do not yet understand that the pursuit of power has a price."

Plagueis felt his already tenuous grip on his patience begin to slip.

"As I explained to your predecessor," the sage sighed, "it was the bota that led to our conflict with the Jedi."

Tenebrous was dubious. "It was Arden Lyn's defection to Xendor's faction—"

"That was certainly what they claimed," the sage nodded, "but the truth was much...," he paused, searching for a proper word, "_murkier_. The defectors took with them a supply of bota. The enhancements were what enabled Xendor's supporters to openly threaten the Jedi, despite their paltry numbers. Eventually, the Jedi traced the supply back to Palawa: they were looking for bota. That is why the world was so thoroughly ransacked."

The depth of the revelation detonated within Plagueis with the force of a bomb. He managed to form a hesitant inference: "The Jedi did not find any?"

The sage shook his head. "When we knew the battle was lost, we destroyed the supplies in our retreat."

Tenebrous cocked his head. "How do you know this to be true?"

"Because I was there," the sage said simply.

Plagueis and Tenebrous exchanged glances.

"You realize," Plagueis said, his words as slow as the sage's own, "that that event occurred nearly twenty-five millennia ago?"

The sage nodded and Plagueis appraised him openly. "And it is the bota that has kept you alive?"

"No. My longevity owes to regular exercise, a healthy diet, and another technique we developed—one less popular than Teräs Käsi."

"You are immortal," Plagueis breathed.

"_No_," the sage said, his tone firmer. "I have simply prolonged my life through a meditative hibernation; stasis, in which I rest for centuries at a time." He glared at Plagueis. "Your ambitions are transparent, but you should know that I've spent far more time asleep than I have awake."

"Why are you awake now?"

"Your predecessor. He rather rudely disturbed my slumber at the point of a sword." The sage flicked a finger towards Tenebrous's belt. "Just like that one."

Plagueis's impatience began to swell. "You should know, we could hide the bota from the Jedi."

"You can't," the sage replied, "bota amplifies your powers, but also your troubles. It will draw the Jedi and the Republic and a _mountain_ of bota would not be enough to protect you from their full might. To say nothing of the _other_ dangers."

Tenebrous jerked his head at that. "What 'other dangers'?"

The sage shook his head, declining to answer. Instead, he said, "Regardless, I have told you: we haven't any left to give. Your predecessor took the last of it and we are glad to be rid of it."

Plagueis had to bottle the rage that threatened to erupt from him to the physical detriment of everyone in the vicinity. He swallowed, crushing his wrath beneath the boot of cool poise.

"Then we will be leaving," he ground out, "thank you for your time."

The sage nodded. Plagueis flicked his eyes to his Master, who jerked his head behind him. They turned almost at once and moved to leave when they heard the old man's voice, raised slightly.

"Do you know the one advantage to being as old as I am?"

Plagueis half turned to regard him and saw the sage offer a smile sadder than the others.

"The opportunity to correct one's mistakes."

Panic laddered up Plagueis's spine and his body moved instinctively, ducking forward even as his acute mind was trying to comprehend what was going on. He heard a sharp sound race over where his head was, the sound of air being cut. Simultaneously, his peripheral vision registered Tenebrous move similarly, ducking beneath an arced blur of color.

They were being attacked.

Decades of rigorous Sith training assumed control of Plagueis's body. He snapped back up and twitched his wrist; the lightsaber pommel shot through his sleeve into his palm. He ignited the blade and spun through a wide arc, intending to mutilate his attackers—the charging Followers ducked beneath the slash and slid forward on their knees to strike. Aware of the danger they posed as close quarters combatant, Plagueis evaded them only by a desperate backflip that carried him over the sage's head. He landed, but the sage's attendants had already closed in. Fingers closed around his wrist in an uncompromising grip, wrenching the lightsaber back. The second attendant threw a jab that caught him in the face, snapping his head backward and causing him to stumble back.

The Followers were fast, even among Force adepts. They had probably been gathering their energies quietly while the Sith had been engrossed in their conversation with their leader. Even in the throes of surprise and desperation, Plagueis was able to analyze the situation to a rudimentary degree: the Followers had an advantage in numbers and close-quarters training. But none of them could match Plagueis or his Master in Force strength, which could make all the difference.

Still half-dazed by the Follower's initial punch, Plagueis withstood a second and third consecutive blow as he heaved with restrained arm that gripped his lightsaber. Power rushed through his limb and the Follower was lifted off his feet and hurled into the second attendant. Surprisingly, the Follower's grip did not falter, did not loosen. Plagueis wrenched his arm again and lashed out with a sidekick. Energy coursed through his leg and the blow crushed the attendant's rib cage and hurled him and his companion away with the force of a grenade.

Plagueis whirled to glimpse the majority of the Followers surrounding Tenebrous, who was determined not to let any of them touch him. He flattened two at a time with rapid shots of concussive Force energy, but the attackers were clever: swarming him, they denied Tenebrous the critical second or two he would need to deliver a fatal strike, forcing him to expend his reserves.

The wounded attendants clamored to their feet to continue the fight, but Plagueis was in no position to be merciful. He snapped his arm outward, fingers spread, and a torpedo of invisible Force ragdolled the pair, hurling them deep into the surrounding forest. Plagueis heard the series of crashes of tree branches and crunches of vertebrae as he shot forward, his body a literal blur. Two of the Followers spun away from Tenebrous to intercept him, but all were moving at such speeds that they could not stop themselves in time as Plagueis swung his lightsaber protectively in front of them. The blade bisected the pair, but Plagueis didn't break stride at their anguished faces and upper halves folded downwards.

Plagueis moved to cull the horde attacking his Master, but a Follower lashed out with a flawless roundhouse kick. The bare foot struck his hand with such force that Plagueis snarled and dropped his lightsaber, which was promptly dogpiled by another Follower before Plagueis could summon it back. The one who disarmed him rushed forward to press the attack. Plagueis retreated, exchanging blows with him. Though an accomplished martial artist himself per the Sith standard, Plagueis was horrified to learn that this Follower—who was probably nothing special among the group, an ordinary flunky—was more than his equal. Plagueis blocked mechanically, but his limbs throbbed with pain. In quick succession, the Follower broke through his defense and hammered him with a blow to the chest. Plagueis staggered back four hasty steps and raised his hand to respond with a Force blow, but the Follower was already in movement—spinning, he ducked down and loosed a powerful horse kick. Plagueis's lungs flattened and he felt his feet leave the ground; he landed some ten meters away, coughing and wheezing on the ground. He rolled onto his back, only to find his limbs pinned each by a Follower. Then, above him, he saw the sage step into view, eclipsing the sun. Plagueis's eyes darted to the old man's hands: he was holding Plagueis's lightsaber.

The sage wasted no time. He thumbed the activation plate and the red blade buzzed into existence. He swung the blade so that the tip pointed down towards Plagueis's chest, a graceful movement that suggested familiarity with the weapon. The sage offered another sad smile but did not offer boasts or speeches; distantly, Plagueis admired that.

Then, the sad smile morphed into a snarl of anger. The old man's withered hands bore the blade downward and Plagueis, dazed and paralyzed by a fear unlike any he'd ever experienced, could only watch and gargle impotently—

Then the light intensified suddenly, like a flare or supernova or a bolt of lightning—a tangle of purplish energy that crashed into the old man's back. The point of the lightsaber froze centimeters over Plagueis's chest; the sage tipped his head back and loosed a ferocious scream that Plagueis could not hear over the crash and crackle of energy. Instantly, the hands binding him slackened; the sage was thrown violently forward, over Plagueis's head.

He kicked himself to his feet and the fallen lightsaber dutifully shot into his hands. The four Followers who had pinned him were retreating back, but abject fear had provided Plagueis the energy he'd needed since the beginning of the fight. Without gesturing, he lassoed the Followers with invisible ropes of Force energy and yanked them towards him; simultaneously, he activated the lightsaber and spun on his feet, a blurred corkscrew of red light.

He snapped to a halt and four heads toppled from robed bodies that collapsed to the ground like puppets cut from their marionettes.

It was testament to the reputed skill of the Followers that a dozen were still standing. But Plagueis, rescued by his Master's timely intervention, was now in a position to give full vent to his ire. Tenebrous sensed this and ceded the proverbial floor to his apprentice with a nod, stepping over the broken bodies of his fallen attackers.

The Followers rushed forward in multiple directions, each an indistinguishable haze to the naked eye, but Plagueis tracked them now with ease. As the first to approach closed the distance to attack, Plagueis's hands snapped up. Each of his fingers extended and serpentine coils of blue energy erupted from their tips. Bolts speared the initial wave; the second realized the danger but were committed by Force-enhanced momentum and stumbled into the web of energy; the last tried to exploit the benefit of their companions haste and pivoted on their heels to retreat, but the lightning was faster.

As enraged as afraid, he maintained the attack for half a minute. When he was done and the lightning sparked into nothing, twelve bodies dropped in a discordant drumbeat; wisps of smoke curled upward from the charred robes, blistered and scorched skin hissed and seethed.

He issued a forceful exhale, anger and fear driven from his body in one movement, but he felt no remorse for the dead enemies that were sprinkled around him.

Plagueis spun on his heel. The old sage, burned almost as badly as his fallen brethren, hovered meter off the ground. Tenebrous stood in front of him and Plagueis, now calm, felt his Master's own anger through the Force for the first time that day.

Plagueis approached calmly. "Where is the bota?"

The old man forced through blistered lips, "Don't... have... was... truthful..."

Plagueis closed his eyes and sighed. "I don't suppose you know where we could find more?"

The sage shook his head.

"Wonderful," Plagueis deadpanned, disinterested. He waved his hand, contemptuously and stepped back. The sage was released, dropping to the ground. He cried out in pain as he landed on his side. Plagueis watched his Master move to tower over the cringing leader.

"You look tired," Tenebrous observed, his tone mocking. He leaned down to rub the sage's head like one might a pet. He rose back to his full height and activated his lightsaber, angling the blade over the old man's neck.

"Get some rest."

He swung downward.

**As promised, this begins one of the action-segments of what is turning out to be an extraordinarily (perhaps painfully?) long story. Hopefully you will enjoy it, remember that reviews are encouraged: comments and criticisms are equally welcome.**

**~AC**

**The Followers of Palawa is an obscure Force cult that features primarily in reference material such as **_**Jedi vs. Sith: The Essential Guide to the Force**_

**Teräs Käsi is a popular martial arts discipline in the Star Wars universe, appearing in Michael Reaves' Med-Star Duology and **_**Death Star**_** novel, as well as a PlayStation game called Star Wars: Masters of Teräs Käsi**


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